


The Depthless Waiting

by magicknickers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_darkfest, F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicknickers/pseuds/magicknickers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually, Lily gets what she wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Depthless Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Well. This is my first attempt at dark!fic, but I think it worked out. I was going for the psychological horror/trauma here, so hopefully that comes across. Thank you to my lovely beta, sbrande! Written for the hp_darkfest.
> 
> Warnings: Incest, chan (Lily is 15), dub-con/non-con via Imperio, adultery  
> Prompt: "Because everything she does comes from within. From some dark impulse. I guess that's what makes her so thrilling to watch. So dangerous. Even perfect at times, but also so damn destructive." - Black Swan; Lily Luna is smart, beautiful, depraved, and intent on seducing her favourite teacher.

You really are quite bright, brighter than your cousin, maybe—Rose shoots you a dirty look from across the table, pale fingertips crackling with the magic that poorly-contained anger always brings out—and lovelier than anybody could have hoped for. Dark eyes, depthless, even _(depthless Sister-mine you are depthless James breathes against your flesh before kissing you_ there _)_ and hair like flames around your fair, freckled face. Modesty has never been one of your strong suits, but there are more important things in life, you think.

 

Professor Longbottom _(his fingers stroke you forcefully and your moan wakes you up that night, your own fingers deep inside your cunt)_ has paired you with Luca Zabini, who has been after you like you are in heat since he was old enough to catch your scent, though you cannot remember when you were not old enough for these things. You can appreciate his determination, so you let him slide his dark hand _(don't be mad Jamie it was his fault)_ up under your skirt as you sit at the nearest table to your Professor and try to absorb every word he says about the mallowsweet plant he holds up in front of you. It is Professor Longbottom who is touching you, one hand in your knickers even now—

 

 

Zabini groans very softly and you finally stop him, pulling his hand away without a second thought. He is not who you want.

 

 

Rosie does not like you—neither does James' wife, whose eyes are even darker than yours _(is this her Moira asks James with her wand casually pointed towards you)_ , but that is a different matter. Your cousin never has, though she pretends to love you like Hugo and Al and James. There is a time when you follow her up the stairs to her bedroom in the Weasley's house and watch as the Malfoy boy crawls in through the window, pale and incredibly blonde. They are weak, hands roaming over clothing, moans low-pitched and slow, hungry for what humanity has long been denied. You leave when he leaves, uninspired.

 

You are so much better than Rosie.

 

***  


You are his favourite student, that you are sure of. Herbology comes easily to you, and your blood sings with the Earth, calling you deep into the Forbidden Forest on some nights to lie on the dark ground and gasp at the beauty of it all. No creature goes near you, as if sensing the pulse of wrongness around you, though you can hear them growling and whimpering around you.

Your Professor's eyes are a strange shade of navy _(depthless)_ unlike the glassy blue of most of your family, dark and hooded and knowing. You lick your lips at breakfast _(cherries and blackness coat your tongue)_ in the Great Hall and are pleased to see his face flush. It is inspiring, this knowledge that he wants you. It lingers, making you let out a little, pleasure-filled sigh.

You have an appointment with him after school to talk about the NEWT’s you will be taking next year, and you find yourself soaked _(Gods Lily you're so fucking wet Jamie growls)_ at the mere thought of it.

  


***  


The Sorting Hat sits on your head for thirty-two minutes, rifling through your thoughts in silence, going over them a dozen times over. It is invasive and awful, which is a loveliness all on its own. It whispers _'Gryffindor_ ' with perceptible hesitation, and nobody claps, not even James. His dark eyes _(depthless Sister-mine depthless)_ meet yours, and there are words and sentences and pages of text in them, but you cannot read him this time.

Professor Longbottom calls you Lily rather than Miss Potter accidentally on the first day of classes, and a thrill of _something_ goes through you, even when he corrects himself and mentions his wife. It is as if even then he senses it and tries to stop _this_ , ineffective as his silly wife will ever be in stopping you.

Still, you are very young _(James brushes his fingertips over your tiny mouth and smiles wickedly)_ and these things take time.

The waiting, the wanting.

It is a sort of necessary build-up, marking the determination in you to get what you need. You _are_ need—this open, aching expanse of flesh that waits impatiently for its due.

  


***  


_“Expelliarmus!”_ Professor Longbottom's wand _(cherry unicorn hair thirteen inches long)_ flies into your waiting hand. With a casual flick of your wand, the door locks itself and a silencing charm goes up around the room, the greenish tint of it shimmering in the air for a moment too long before fading.

“Lily,” he says to you, and it is low and sad and knowing.

“Professor,” you say to him, and it is just knowing. You smile as you perch on the very edge of his desk, uncovered quim already soaked. His eyes are _(depthless)_ hooded, his nostrils flaring wildly. The distinct scent of arousal permeates the air, and you know he can smell it.

“Lily—Miss Potter—“

_“Imperio,”_ you whisper, and he stops speaking, lips still parted. It is easy enough to get him standing up, and easier still to make him stand in front of you. The difficulty comes in getting him to touch you. Teeth gnashing and hands clenching and this horrified look on his face give him away. Your Professor is _fighting_ you, and suffering for it.

“Will you go willingly, then?” you ask him. A jerky shake of the head tells you no, he will _not_ go willingly.

His knees buckle, face level with your cunt. You throw your head back in anticipation, his breath touching you _there_ and you think you may die from this feeling.

Then, you realize that he is sobbing.

“Professor,” you coo softly as you tangle your fingers in his dark hair and nudge him closer to where you want him, the press in his mind _(touch her Neville everything will be better if you touch her)_ still insistent. He sobs harder, shoulders shaking and eyes closed tightly.

“Hannah,” he whispers, “Oh, gods—”

His mouth clamps shut at your push. _You_ will be in his mind tonight—he will not pretend that you are somebody else, especially not that watery, blond half-woman.

The last shreds of his will slip away—you can feel him give in—and finally, _finally_ his tongue darts out to press against your clit, his hands going up to wrap around your spread thighs.

_“Oh,”_ you sigh very softly. It is the most beautiful thing you've ever _(James oh James)_ felt, like splintery shards of broken glass and the blinding sunlight of midday and the coppery sharpness of fresh blood. Your fingertips insistently rub against his scalp, pulling him even closer, and he lets out a little groan _(whimper)_ , the sound reverberating against your skin. You chuckle breathlessly and his hands tighten on you—anger or embarrassment or a combination of both. He can do little to resist _you_ , Lily Luna Potter, and things are going so much better now that he's accepted it.

You come hard, eyes rolling back and a string of raspy gasping noises escaping you. He stands up when you recover enough to give him another order, and slips his robes off, hands shaking and jerky.

“Stand still,” you tell him, a giggle following the words—it's all so tragically romantic. Fingers trace the buttons of his shirt, pulling them open until a strip of toned, fair flesh is revealed to you. Your Professor does not _(cannot)_ struggle, though he closes his eyes once more when you unbuckle his belt and pull his trousers open, as if closing his eyes will transport him to another time and place where he doesn't have to do _this_. You wrap your hand around his already-hard cock _(you won't let him pretend)_ and his eyes flash open, a hungry, horrified look on his face.

_“No,”_ he breathes, his voice whispery and panicked.

“No?” you answer, brushing the tip of his cock with your fingernail. He does not say anything, his breath coming in short, sharp pants—more pained than anything else.

Still, you give him the order, and he has no choice but to obey. Your Professor's shoulders shudder and shake with his sobbing, which has started up again, as he slides you further up onto the desk, spreading your legs wider and pressing your back against the mahogany surface as gently as if you were his virgin _(Jamie why does it hurt)_ bride.

As he slides into you, your eyes _(depthless Sister-mine depthless)_ meet. You can tell that he will not _(cannot)_ pretend.

You finish simultaneously, your nails digging into his shoulders and legs wrapped around his waist as if you'll never let him go.

But you do. Let him go, that is, and he crumples on the floor with his trousers still pushed down to his thighs and his shirt open and little spots of blood from where you dug your nails in littering his chest and staining his shirt.

_“Finite Incantatem,”_ you say, smiling when your silencing ward collapses. Brushing your skirt off and running a hand through your thoroughly mussed hair, you slide off the desk.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Professor,” you call out as you leave the room, the door shutting softly behind you.


End file.
